the neighbor's place
On afternoons when you are not
parked behind the house,
and the grass gone to seed
shows a ragged defiance
to the day,
I bow my head in your direction,
shyly nod towards the there
where you are not.
Hello, I say, not speaking,
to the windows' cubist vision of me,
to the porch's radiant tunnel,
and that sly feathering jubilance of grass.
It's not that I mind it when you are there,
but when you're not,
that space where you are not,
only has eyes for me.
